Unspoken Promises
by Fang323
Summary: Arthur didn't know how much longer he could hold on through the Blitz.  Alfred hated his own uselessness.
1. Late Night Shock

Hey there, Fang here. Sorry I havent posted in forever, fics have been taking time to write...And I finally did it. The Blitz fic that everyone does. But, well...Oh come on, I had to do it too!

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><p>Arthur shrugged on his long coat over his suit jacket, signing a breath of relief. It was a small piece of satisfaction in this cold, hard new world, the knowing that he was now heading home to a warm, if slightly charred meal and a hot cup of tea. This war had been hard fought, and Parliament was more on edge than ever before.<p>

The Englishman walked out the main door of the House of Lords, rubbing the back of his neck wearily. He really ought to get some sleep, he thought to himself as he began walking down the streets of London. Even Churchill had remarked had remarked on his appearance before the meeting had convened. In curiosity, England stopped in front of a store window to glance at the man reflected in the lamplight.

He was met with a haggard face, worn and exhausted from the few years of fighting. His hair was duller in color, either from the grime of the city of from his lacking in full health, and if possible, messier. The circles under his eyes were larger, more accentuated, but the emerald orbs were still as fierce as ever.

Arthur straightened himself up, even though the numerous bruises and small cuts he had managed to treat himself groaned and ached in response, and walking with an assured step that almost hid his growing weakness, continued on towards his house. Since July, Germany had been bombing his ports and airfields in the south, and his legs were never feeling up to snuff. But #!*% if he was going to use a cane.

The war had turned a direction that he hoped it would not come to. Europe was almost entirely under Germany's command. Wait, he corrected, not Germany. Hitler. Germany had no more control over his totalitarian dictator than England had over America. That still didn't mean he didn't want to punch the f*ucking b*astard in the balls, though.

H*ell, he allowed himself a small chuckle, if he was in charge of America, he'd be having a better time defending against the Nazi b*astards. He'd be pushing them back where they came from, he would. But, he sighed, he'd have to make do with that Lend-Lease Act. Not that it wasn't helping, but he wished America would come to his senses and fight.

Arthur looked up at the sky, and then down at his watch. Almost midnight…the meeting had run long. Not that he was surprised at all; urgency made them a necessity. With only himself standing in the way of Germany's complete takeover of Europe, there was no room for rest. Right now, his only prerogative was himself.

Arthur could hear the sound of planes in the distance but he dismissed it as his own. Strategy. With only himself to rely on now, he needed some sort of strategy change. England needed defense, if it was going to survive long enough for any other countries to join in.(He wasn't naming names, and he wasn't holding his breath.)

The planes were getting louder, he though absently. Why are they flying over London? The streets were quiet, only making the sound louder. Some sleepy-eyed citizens were cranking open their windows, looking up in confusion. Arthur paused, listening carefully to the almost overhead aircraft. His eyes widened. Those weren't the engines of the RAF…those were-

A plane flew overhead, and Arthur's heart froze. A moment later, his world erupted.

Even though the explosion of flame two streets down emphasized plenty, the disruption on his hear was what dropped him to his knees. London was under attack, he dimly realized. London was under attack.

The pain hit his chest like a red-hot knife. Arthur gasped as he thudded onto the pavement face first. Another hit. And one more. He could feel each bomb ripping away his breath, tearing his body apart. Arthur gasped again, trying to draw any air in, but he met with a choking, gurgled noise that crept up his throat. He coughed violently, spewing scarlet specks across the sidewalk. Blood, he thought wildly, his blood.

Arthur stumbled upright, clutching his chest tightly, teeth gritting through the pain. Now he could hear people screaming, crying in fear and shock. They were running past him in blurs of color, running for the bomb shelters, the subways, he noticed, before two more bombs hit his city. He slammed up against the wall of the building behind him, blood being coughed up again. Arthur's body was racked with insurmountable torture, yet he pushed himself off the wall and began struggling blindly through the throngs of distraught people.

London was bombed, he thought numbly as another white bolt of lightning shot his heart again. London was bombed. He stumbled on a crack in the sidewalk, and finally looked down to see a red trail behind him.

The now constant hits upon his heart had numbed him to any other pain, so when he glanced down at the hand covering his chest, he was surprised to see blood trickling through his clenched fingers. He brought his blood-covered hand to his face and stared at the red liquid dripping down his wrist. Only when he lowered it did he see it.

Fire. London was burning. Oh, dear God, no.

Smoke was everywhere. The orange flames licked the tall buildings, traveling in and out of the streets of his city. Those streets were transformed into a burning crescendo.

Arthur coughed again, but his eyes were open in shock. Without thinking, he tore off his coat and jacket, and one look at his shirt confirmed it all: a scarlet stain was blossoming on the white, thin fabric. With a panicked jerk, he tore the buttons off and nearly passed out from the morbid sight that greeted him. A hideous burn originated at the left side of his chest and was rapidly continuing to spread across his torso. With the realization of the severe wound, the wrenching, fiery pain of the new injury added to the constant attacks on his heart. Arthur hit the ground hard on his side, the impact sending waves of agony to his left arm. Arthur couldn't scream now even if he had wanted too; the last of his strength had failed him.

His arm jutting out at an unhealthy angle, Arthur writhed in the middle of the streets, mouth open in a silent cry. God, this was the end of the world. He was dying. He was honest to God dying. Everything was blending together; agony was the only constant.

Arthur was staring at the sky now. The blackness that filled his now was reflected into the heavens, with tiny, mocking stars laughing at his plight. The burning city was all around him…the flames and wood were growing closer to him as his eyes fluttered closed, his mind all but shutting down. H*ell raged all around him.

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><p>AUTHOR'S COMMENTS:<p>

Well...I really need to stop bombing Iggy...I have another bombing fic thats ready to be published as soon as I get this one up. I'm going to write happy stuff, I swear! Really, I do!

Hope you like, and keep reading...

-Fang


	2. Saving Grace

Hey there, Fang here. Sorry for the delay...Fanfiction was being odd and not letting me upload this whole chapter, so I, being stupid, didn't consider that it just wouldn't let me upload this one and so...it was long and drawn out and you really don't want to hear about it. But anyway, here it is.

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><p>Across the Atlantic Ocean, Alfred heard the news of the attack before anyone else in his country. It was about eight in the morning, at his house, thanks to the time difference. Alfred knew that Arthur would still be awake; with as little sleep the Brit got, he was getting even less now. But calling him right now would be perfect; he needed to discuss the amount of weaponry he would be sending him next, and since Arthur would just be getting him, he wouldn't be as cranky as usual.<p>

America rang up Arthur's number, but instead of a calm, though slightly annoyed voice telling him to bugger off, a different voice did.

"Uh…where's Arthur Kirkland?" Alfred asked tentatively.

"Sir-Sir Kirkland? I…Uh…No one knows…" came the nervous reply. Alfred stiffened.

"What do you mean, no one knows?"

"L-London's just been attacked, sir…! Sir Kirkland was supposed to return home from a meeting there…"

Alfred cut the man off. "I-I get it. Thanks." He slammed the phone down on the receiver and sank into his swivel chair.

Germany was bombing Britain. Bombing Arthur. It wasn't possible. It couldn't be.

And Arthur was missing? But that meant he was in London! With the attack…oh d*amn .

Alfred stood up quickly and rung up his other brother. Determination shone in his bespectacled eyes, covering up the extreme worry that was coursing through his body.

"Mattie? I'm goin to your place. I need some help."

It wasn't two hours later that Alfred stepped foot in London. The once beautiful city was in ruins. Rubble littered the darkened streets from where buildings had been demolished from the bombs. Alfred had to pick his way through the debris carefully, and he couldn't help but stop at times to listen to the heartbreaking cries of people whose homes were gone, and the relieved exclamations of citizens who still had one. The sounds of rubble being moved away, the people grieving, and the creaks of unstable buildings all threatened to overcome him.

Alfred shook his head violently and forced himself to move faster; though he wanted with all his heart to help these people, he didn't have much time. His boss was going to find out that he wasn't in the U.S. soon enough, so he estimated that he had a few hours to find his brother. He was going to use every single moment of them.

Alfred began grabbing any sensible man, woman, or child, asking each of them if they had seen the personification of their country. For a good fifteen minutes, he received frightened, negative responses. Finally, one haggard, middle-aged woman pointed him in the direction she had last seen Arthur.

"He looked absolutely horrible, sir, but I only glanced at him in all the commotion…" she commented in that all-too-recognizable accent of hers. Alfred grimly thanked her and wished her luck before running off in that direction.

Almost no one was on this street; if Alfred didn't know better, London could be considered one of his old West ghost towns. He couldn't see anyone right off the bat, but as it was dark as h*ell with no people about, it was expected. Alfred flicked his flashlight on to full power and began his half-crazed search.

It wasn't five minutes later that he saw the half-covered body in the middle of the street. Alfred almost dropped the flashlight as he rushed towards his brother.

"Arthur…!" he murmured as he knelt down and began quickly removing the debris. As far as he could tell, Arthur was still breathing; the slight rise and fall of his bloodied chest affirmed it. Alfred was stunned at the gruesome bur that was spread across his brother's torso. His arm didn't look right either. Alfred gritted his teeth and closed his eyes. Arthur needed medical attention, and fast. There were bound to be internal injuries as well, and Alfred didn't want Arthur in anymore pain that he was in right now. Alfred stripped his bomber jacket off in no time at all, and wrapped it around Arthur's limp shoulders tightly. He lifted the battered body up in his arms, and was disheartened by how light he had become. But considering how the war had tolled him, that was to be expected.

As Alfred ran down the streets in search of the nearest hospital, Arthur's head lolled back and forth on Alfred's shoulder, completely out. Alfred glanced down at his brother's extremely pale face, and suddenly didn't care about what Roosevelt was going to say when he got back home. He wasn't leaving until he knew Arthur would be alright. A silent promise was made, and Alfred ran on.

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><p>Alfred was sitting in the waiting room of a hospital some distance away fromLondon. Thankfully, the doctors there had automatically recognized the injured man, and Arthur had been whisked away in a flurry of medical terminology and equipment. Alfred was left standing there, bomber jacket hanging in his hands.<p>

And he was till sitting there after what seemed like an eternity, when one doctor finally came into the room. Alfred bolted upright, his face one pleading question.

"Sir Kirkland is by no means in the best of health, and it will take about a month before he is completely recovered, but he is stable, for now."

Alfred shoulders went limp with relief, and he sank in to the chair behind him.

"His injuries were indeed serious, the least being a fractured ulna in his left arm and numerous bruises and cuts all over his body. We easily handled those without much problem."

The doctor took the seat by Alfred.

"The burn was quite serious, though. We treated it as best we could, but there is now guarantee that it will not continue spreading if our capital city is bombed again. Or one the other hand, it may just worsen, effectively hindering the healing process."

Alfred's head fell into his hands.

"The one thing of which we have no control over is the attack like symptoms upon his heart. We hope that, assuming this will not happen again, nothing permanent will come of it, though we cannot promise anything." The doctor concluded.

Alfred looked up at him.

"Can I-" The man nodded.

"Since it is you, Mr. Jones, I will allow you to see Sir Kirkland. I can only allow you half an hour, sir. Any more-"

"No, No, dude, that's totally fine. Thanks." Alfred stood up and threw his jacket over his shoulder. The man led him down three doors, turned right, four more, a left, and past two more rooms to the third door on the left. Alfred would never forget the path, even years later.

The doctor nodded at room 104, and Alfred didn't hesitate.

He half expected to find Arthur the same as when he picked him up on the streets: bleeding and broken in the middle of the ruined city. But instead of the heart wrenching scene he was thinking about, Alfred walked in on one of the cleanest, whitest rooms he had ever seen. In the bed that was on the far side of the wall lay Arthur.

He was cleaned up nicely, at least. His hair and face showed no sign of blood, but a bandage on his cheek and forehead indicated minor injuries, as did the line of bruises along his jaw line.

Alfred moved next to the bed and sat down in the hard plastic chair by Arthur's head. Arthur was asleep, or just simply unconscious. He was still extremely pale though, and it was only accentuated higher by the never ending whiteness of the room. His gaze was drawn to the bandages covering Arthur's chest and looping over his left shoulder to keep it in place. It didn't look as bad hidden under the fabric, but Alfred couldn't shake the image of charred flesh. A cast covered his brother's left arm, while an IV drip was connected to his right wrist.

Arthur was d*amn skinny, Alfred noted, pulling the blankets over the still figure. When Arthur was able, Alfred was going to be shoving hamburgers down his throat so fast Arthur wouldn't be able to complain.

The door opened quickly, jilting Alfred into a protective position next to his brother, ready for anything. To his relief, it was the doctor, who regarded him carefully.

"A Matthew Williams is on the phone, sir. He wishes to speak to you."

With a quick glance at his ailing brother, Alfred followed him out and took the receiver.

"Hey, Mattie."

"Al? I just wanted to say that your president is getting suspicious…"

"Tell him anything. I'll be back over there as soon as I can."

"Alright….but just hurry. Oh, and…how's big brother?"

Alfred gritted his teeth.

"…He's out, for now. The doctors say that its something with his heart…only they can't do anything about it. So if it happens again…I can't-"

"Arthur will be ok, Al."

"Well, he sure doesn't look it to me!"

"He's strong enough to handle this, Al. I know you're worried, but there's nothing you can do about it. You're neutral, remember?"

"…I'll be home soon, Mattie."

Alfred set the phone back on the hook and made a quick dash to Arthur's room again. He breathed a sigh of relief to see the Brit still there, lying quietly, if not peacefully. His noticeable eyebrows were drawn together in some sort of distress, a nightmare, maybe? Or some remnants of pain had leaked into his subconscious?

Alfred gently moved Arthur's forever messy hair out of his eyes, making sure to watch that his fingers didn't hit the bandage. He began to stroke Arthur's hair, noticing that the pained expression he had when Alfred first waked in evaporated slowly. Alfred smiled, and stood up. Much as he needed to get home… d*amn , he couldn't just leave Arthur either. He looked so vulnerable, so defenseless…

Arthur shivered unconsciously; even under all the blankets, he felt cold? Alfred's mind clicked; he had an idea. He shrugged off his bomber jacket and removed the blankets covering Arthur. Gently, he laid the jacket over his brother, and careful of the wounds, tucked it under his thin body. Arthur visibly relaxed, and his right hand clenched the familiar fabric tightly. Alfred replaced the blankets and leaned down and kissed his brother's forehead.

"I'll be back, Artie, so don't die on me."

Promise made, Alfred shoved Texasup his nose, and with one last glance at Arthur, left the room.

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><p>AUTHOR'S COMMENTS:<p>

...Iggy is really easy to torture...I have a few fluffier fics I'll eventually post, but I have another one where Iggy's bombed again, so I'll post that one later...

Once again, sorry for the delay...!

I really like the jacket in this one...ah, symbolism, you make stories so much better...

Oh, And as always, I eat reviews for breakfast, they brighten my day, even if you guys complain, I don't mind. ^_^ So please review...and keep reading my other fics...

C ya later!

-Fang


	3. Hellish Times

Hey there, Fang here. I have the whole fic done, and even an epilogue, but I'm separating uploading the chapters by one day just cause...well...i feel like it...so enjoy today's installment!

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><p>Arthur woke in a burst of terror and agony as the familiar stabbing sensation to his heart destroyed any peace he may have found. He tossed violently on the bed, throwing covers and something heavier every which way in his efforts to reach his heart. He couldn't see. He couldn't recognize anything. The white hot pain shooting his chest unfailingly clouded his vision, sending him into utter blackness. He screamed in fear, rage, hurt, and felt something rip through his right hand. But the pain of that was nothing compared to his chest. He scrabbled at the cloth blocking his way from clawing his heart out, and he tore the restrictions loose.<p>

He felt his fingers sink into his flesh unhindered, and he cried aloud, but any additional pain was worth it, as long as he destroyed the thing that was hurting him the most. Again, he raked his nailed down his burning chest. Again, a shriek tore from his lips. He rolled off the bed in his blond panic, landing with a crash onto the hard wooden floor.

The fall knocked his breath out, but his fingers continued to tear at his skin. It had to stop. The pain had to stop. But it wasn't. It would never stop. Oh God, help me. I can't do this. I can't-

"DOCTOR!"

"My God! Quick, bloody restrain him!"

Arthur felt his hand being pulled away from his heart, and he automatically fought against the strong grip.

"Sir Kirkland! Please Calm down!"  
>"Bloody h*ell , man, hold his legs down!"<p>

Arthur could feel himself pinned to the floor on all sides, and still he felt no other option but to struggle. Why were they stopping him? Why deny him the one thing he wanted most? What bloody b*astards were these people?

A crack ripped through his hearts and Arthur froze, his mouth open in a shout of terror. The voices around him were unintelligible, just mere noises evaporated by the destructive fire inside him. There was nothing but the pain now, the fear. It encompassed him completely; he had never felt anything else and believed he never would again.

That eternity of a second passed slowly and rapidly once again, and then the flame went out. Arthur could feel sweat running down his face, stinging in places that shouldn't have. The fire raged inside, but no more fuel was being added. Arthur's head hit the floor.

Alfred's coffee cup crashed on the tile of his floor.

"WHAT?"

"It's another one, Alfred. He's ok, now, but-"

" D*amn my boss, I'm going over there. Mattie, I-"

"NO!"

Alfred had never heard such forcefulness in his brother's tone. He was taken aback.

"Al, you're neutral. You can't keep coming here, it's breaking our position! I don't care that you don't but you stay there."

"He's my brother too, Mattie!"

"I know! But what would he say if he knew you were risking everything you've done to stay out of the war for him?"

Alfred rubbed his eyes wearily.

"He'd tell me what a bloody git I was, and not to worry about him. I know."

Matthew's tone was relieved.

"Good."

"Look, can't you just tell me how he is?"

Alfred heard his bro gulp, but told him in a voice which wavered more than usual.

"He had some sort of fit…he ripped the IV out of his hand. And…the burn is worse…it spread up to his neck. But he hurt himself, Al…he was ripping his left side of his chest apart with his hand."

Alfred grasped the handle of his chair so hard he could almost feel the wood giving in.

"They had to restrain him…he's literally tied to the bed. He looks awful, Al…"

"…Mattie, this isn't helping."

"Al, don't come! Just…Al, I found your jacket here…did you leave it by accident?"

Alfred said nothing.

"…Well, I used it as a pillow for him. And I told the nurses to keep it near him at all times. Is that Ok?"

"…yeah. Thanks, Mattie. Thanks a ton…"

Alfred hung up the phone.

A swirl of emotions was running through his mind; love for his country, love for his people, love for his brothers. What the h*ell was he supposed to do? He couldn't lead his people into a war…but he couldn't just abandon Arthur either. S*hit …. S*hit!

An idea formed in his head, and he smiled grimly. Loopholes, when looked for, were easy to find, and in Alfred's case, he found one. He couldn't fight the Germans as an American? Fine. He would do it as a Canadian. Quickly, he grabbed the phone and dialed Roosevelt.

"Hey man, um…Saturday, I'm going over to Matthew's for a day. Is that alright? Thanks, Frank. Thanks a lot."

Two months later, the bombings still hadn't stopped. From updates from Matthew, Alfred knew Arthur was only getting weaker. He had developed a slight fever now, on top of the torment he was going through. There were very few times when he was somewhat lucid, and most of his days were filled with deliriums and half-understandable mutterings. Mattie said that he had lost more weight, but he wouldn't say how much.

The nights were another story, though. Mattie told of Arthur's constant screams and thrashings. The restraints held him in place to keep him from hurting himself, but it didn't mean he didn't fight against them. Arthur had taken to calling out for people at all hours of the day. Matthew's would come up a few times, but normally, it was one certain hero that was repeated over and over again. When Alfred heard that, it chilled him to the bone.

Alfred had taken to fighting the Luftwaffe over London whenever he got the chance. It wasn't hard posing as a Canadian fighter pilot, you just had to drink maple syrup by the gallon and say 'eh' a lot. So far, Roosevelt hadn't figured it out. All Alfred knew was that every time a f*ucking German plane was destroyed by his hands, he knew Arthur would be feeling that much less pain. It was a small, but comforting thought.

After that night's battle, Alfred was tired, but satisfied. Nine other Americans had joined him in fighting, and he sent them off, knowing he still, for the first time, had a couple hours before he absolutely had to go home. There was only one place he cared to go.

He arrived at the hospital in five minutes. When he walked though the door a nurse instantly recognized him, to his surprise, and led him to the corridor to Arthur.

"Stay as long as you like. He needs it…" the nurse whispered, before disappearing. Alfred walked slowly to the door, once again afraid of what he would find there. The door creaked open.

The same white room. The same bed, window, everything. But…

Alfred barely recognized the man lying there anymore. His hair was overgrown, the product of lack of care, and he was as white as the sheets he was lying in. Matthew wasn't kidding. Arthur was so thing Alfred could count his ribs through the bandages still covering his chest. Alfred crept closer to the man literally tied down to the bed. Bandages covered his wrist, where he must have rubbed it raw trying to struggle against the black strap. His eyes were half open, but completely glazed over, staring at nothing.

"A-Arthur?"

The man…Arthur…turned towards the sound of his voice. His eyes were completely dull, and utterly lifeless. His mouth opened to form a single word.

"Alfred…"

Alfred didn't hesitate. In an instant, he was by the bedside, grasping on of the skin and bone hands in his own warm one. Only then did he see his bomber jacket beneath the Brit's head. His heart clenched.

"Arthur…" It was all he could manage to say. The black bindings, the weakened grip, the haggard face…

"It's not as bad…..as it…looks…"

Alfred's head shot up to find the eyes losing some of their glazed quality, and staring at him. Arthur weakly indicated the black strap around his wrist.

"They're…necessary…"

Alfred wiped his face on his sleeve, hiding any wetness that might've been gathering in his eyes.

"I can…handle it…in the day." Arthur's voice was laced with pain. "I…can't let that Kraut b*astard …beat me..!"

His eyes gained a spark of fire as he held onto Alfred's hand like a lifeline. Alfred could only return the grip, sending whatever strength he could into Arthur. Who know if it was working.

"Your RAF...they're fighting up there. They're holding Germany back."

Arthur's head lolled on the jacket-pillow.

"I know….I know…"

With that, his eyes closed, and he was unconscious again. Alfred sat there for a moment more, and then removed his hand from the Brit's reluctantly. Arthur didn't stir.

Some hero he was being, Alfred scoffed. He was failing at this all. F*uck his neutrality.

Alfred walked away from that room hard and cold. This wouldn't continue. He wouldn't let it continue. Not anymore.

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><p>AUTHOR'S COMMENTS:<p>

Well...right now, Arthur's standing over my head with a gentleman's cane, ready to hit me if I hurt him anymore...so sorry, my dear Iggy...

But anyway, reviews!

Thanks, oro-oro, for your kind review, I'm so glad that you like it so much! I don't know about people not liking historical context...I find most of my ideas for these fics from history. But I'm happy you think I'm doing well with the injury parts...they can be a bit hard to write and not sound boring as heck...I hope you keep up with this fic to the end! (Which, actually, there is only one chapter left...so not too much.) ^_^

And to Sweetwater-Rhapsody, I'm glad you think my writing is lovely...that's a huge complement to me! And about the cussing parts, I've gotten the same thing from some of my other writings. I do put the actual words, but because I have little siblings, a program on my computer changes all of those words to the marks you saw. I can't really correct the problem, unfortunately...but I did go back and add a * to the middle of the word so it does show up without the program blocking it...if that still is distracting, I'm so sorry. I'll keep working on it! But I hope you enjoy the rest of my writing!

But Yah! I am probably going to update the epilogue as well, but probably as a separate fic...if anyone would disagree, please tell me! It's as long as this fic is going to be, so that's why I'm probably going to just leave it.

Oh, and review, please...they brighten my day when I wake up and check my computer. And because Iggy wants you to. You don't want to make Iggy mad, now, do you... ^_^

Thanks, and keep reading...

-Fang


	4. Finally

Hey there, Fang here. Here's the last chapter in this installment, I know its short...but that's ok, right? Please enjoy...

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><p>Fifteen days later, it was over.<p>

Germany had finally called off the Blitz attacks, leaving England alone and going to attack Russia instead. Alfred never liked Russia, and was more than happy and relieved than anytime he could remember.

He made a time allowance to go check on Arthur, to tell him the good news. When he got to the hospital though, his heart leaped and soared to find a nurse removing the black straps of #!*% from Arthur's wrists. Arthur was awake, and noticed Alfred as soon as he ran into the room.

"Artie! Artie, it's done! It's over…"

Arthur managed a small smile, the first Alfred had seen in more than three months.

"I know, git. You always were one for knowing things too late." Arthur's voice was raspy.

An insult, too! Alfred could have danced. Arthur wouldn't be hurt anymore. Never again, he promised himself. Never again.

The nurse left with the binding, and Arthur was free to move for the first time in several months. It showed as well, as his muscles were barely responding as he tried to sit himself up a little from his lying position. Seeing how Arthur was unfortunately failing miserably, Alfred ran to his brother's side and supported him as Arthur painfully, reaching a half-sitting position and decided to call it good. Only then did Alfred realize what Arthur was wearing.

"I think it's a bit big, dude…" A complete understatement; with how bony Arthur was, he was literally swimming in Alfred's jacket.

"Shut up, git."

"And you really need a haircut."

"Stop telling me things I already know!" Arthur's eyes were slowly returning to their emerald green, courtesy of the familiar banter that he had missed. Alfred laughed; it was a welcome sound after the #!*% that had lingered for three months.

"I bloody gather I should give this back to you anyway…" Arthur's weak voice said, and he started struggling to get it off with all of his strength (Which, right now, was close to nil.). Alfred stopped his arms, pulling the bomber jacket back on his brother.

"No."

"No? What do you mean, no? It's bloody yours, isn't it?"

Alfred tugged the jacket around Arthur's frail frame.

"Keep it until you fit into it again." He smiled. Arthur cursed, but didn't remove the article of clothing. Instead, his next few curses were interrupted by a long yawn. Alfred chuckled, and got up in the bed behind Arthur, making a pillow of himself. He laid Arthur's head on his shoulder, and for once, through he was probably out of lack of energy, Arthur didn't complain.

Arthur's eyes drifted shut, and he fell into the first actual sleep in three months. Alfred wrapped his arms around his brother's sleeping form protectively. It would be a #!*% of a long time before Arthur would even be remotely ok, but Alfred had made up his mind. He wasn't leaving him this time.

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><p>AUTHOR'S COMMENTS:<p>

Hey, oro-oro, I know Iggy's fun when he's mad...and yeah, I thought putting in the bit with the Americans would be a good idea...I hope you enjoyed this fic!

Oh, and the epilogue will be a separate fic, I have decided. So stay tuned, i guess! HOpe you liked this, and keep reading my stuff!

-Fang


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